lessons
by ShadowsTakeAll
Summary: there are seven lessons Stiles taught Lydia, and she never even had the chance to thank him. (or: Lydia goes to Stiles' funeral and reflects on their time together.)


**Hi, I'm Shadows; I like angsty one-shots, unhappy endings, and Teen Wolf. Which is how I ended up with this, which I wrote in one sitting. This is my first shot at a Stydia fic, even though I absolutely adore the couple, and it's only my third Teen Wolf story in general. So I'd love to hear what you all think, and whether I should stick with TW... or whether I should just slink on back to my regular fandom and stick to reviewing over here. Oh, usual disclaimer (although I don't have any regular readers in this fandom so I suppose I don't actually have a usual disclaimer): this is not a happy story, I'm more one for darkness and death than fluff and fun times, so keep that in mind if you choose to read. That said, here it is, and enjoy the story. And if you do, please review, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks!**

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Seven is a powerful number.

Colors in the rainbow; days in a week; miracles in the Gospel of John. Horcruxes, seals, parables, miracles. Lessons.

Lydia has always been a thinker. Even when she was still growing into her skin, still trying to find her place, she was always happy to get lost in a story – Greek myths were her favorites, tales of destruction and betrayal and revenge. Heartbreaking, earth-shattering stories that she couldn't tear her eyes away from. Righteous heroes and jealous gods and epic quests; that was the world she lived in, because she knew she didn't belong in the one into which she'd really been born.

Gradually stories gave way to facts; Homer gave way to Darwin, Herodotus to Dawkins. Her feet were more firmly planted in reality, but she couldn't feel safe here until she knew everything about it. Until she could name all the elements on the periodic table, recite and demonstrate all of Newton's laws, explain the Lambda-CDM model without faltering. There was always more to be learnt, facts and evidence always changing, enough to keep her busy. Enough to keep her safe, if not quite sane.

Her routine continued, until a guy with a dorky smile and a generous heart stole her breath away.

Now here she is, two years after she met him; five days after she lost him. She sits in the front row, because it would be disrespectful to be anywhere else. She owes him this much at least. Her friends are beside her, but she's barely aware of their presence. A hand brushes her shoulder, another rests on her knee. Attempts to tie her to this world, even though her anchor is gone.

There are seven lessons Stiles taught Lydia, and she never even had the chance to thank him.

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_\_

_1\. Don't be afraid to take a chance._

She was sitting with a group of friends when he approached her. They'd spoken once or twice, never more than a brief greeting or a half-ignored compliment. She paused her conversation, looking him up and down. He read the question in her eyes, and his courage faltered. Before she could say a word he turned and walked away.

She watched him, curious, but all too soon her attention was brought back to her friends, who were talking about… well, in truth, she had no idea. There was something about him, something she couldn't get out of her head. Of course she would never approach him first, but her relief was almost tangible when he approached her again, and rested his hand on the cafeteria table as if to steady himself.

"Lydia," he began, his voice trembling, "I know we've never really spoken before – or at least you've never spoken to me – but I want to talk to you now – I mean I am talking to you now -"

She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Is there something you want, um…?"

"Stiles," he supplied, deflating slightly. Rallying, he went on, "The dance this Friday. Do you want to go with me?"

A snicker rose up behind her, from one of her friends. She would ordinarily never look at someone like this Stiles guy, but there was something about him. She wanted to figure it out.

"Sure," she said easily, after only a moment's consideration. "Pick me up at eight."

He smiled the brightest smile she had ever seen, and suddenly she knew she'd made the right choice. But she didn't want her friends to know.

"Is there anything else?" she asked primly.

Stiles gaped at her a moment, then mutely shook his head and hurried away, looking like his knees were actually weak. Lydia turned back to her friends, hiding her smile beneath a casual comment on the current political situation in Africa.

Some things she was happy to keep to herself.

\

_2\. Go with your gut._

"You can't be serious," Allison said, looking at Lydia from across the latter's bedroom. "You're going to the dance with _Stiles_?"

Lydia shrugged, holding up another outfit. She surveyed it, dismissed it, and reached for another. "He's nice enough," she said casually. "And besides, if I recall correctly, _you're_ going to the dance with Scott. How is that any different?"

"Hey." Allison held up her hands in mock surrender. "I'm not judging. He just… doesn't seem like your type."

"Maybe that's the point." Finally finding the right dress – bright red, low-cut, falling to just above the knees – she turned around and flashed Allison a smile. "Shouldn't you be getting ready? They're going to be here soon."

Allison rolled her eyes but complied, and in ten minutes both girls were ready. And almost instantly there was a knock at the door. Sharing a look, Allison and Lydia descended the stairs and made their way to the front door; when they opened it, Scott and Stiles stood there, evidently in shock.

"Close your mouth, McCall," Allison teased. "Otherwise flies might get in."

Recovering himself, Scott offered her a smile and held out his hand. She took it, and they headed toward the car. Stiles was still standing there, just looking at her.

"Something wrong?" Lydia asked. She twirled around, holding out her arms. "Don't you like my outfit?"

Stiles' mouth snapped shut. "No. You look gorgeous."

She smiled, taking in the compliment, but her smile faded when he suddenly started and began searching through his pockets. Finally he withdrew a bright red corsage, handing it to her with a touch more formality than the occasion required.

"You got me a corsage." She raised an eyebrow. "How did you even know what color to get?"

He smiled, and somehow that seemed a perfectly adequate answer.

\

_3\. Follow your heart._

The dance was crowded, and when Stiles went to get punch, Lydia lost track of him for a while. When he finally reappeared, he reached out to hand her cup to her – just as a drunk senior barreled past. The result was a lot of spilled punch, a ruined tie, and a few words Lydia cared not to repeat.

"Damn it," Stiles muttered, pulling his tie off and shaking it. Punch splattered everywhere, but somehow there always seemed to be more. "I wanted this night to be perfect."

"Don't worry about it," Lydia said easily. "We can still salvage it."

And they did. They danced, and talked, and laughed, and drank, and by the time the dance finished, Lydia felt more carefree than she could ever remember being. She even leaned her head against his shoulder during the last slow dance.

When she pulled away, his eyes were shining, and she thought nothing had ever been so beautiful.

She opened her mouth to say something about the decorations – weren't they lovely? – but suddenly Stiles was kissing her, and before she could stop herself she was kissing him back. They broke apart as the song ended, and for a long moment she didn't know what to say.

Finally she said softly, "Why did you do that?"

"My heart told me to," Stiles said, a statement which would sound ridiculous coming from anyone else. From him, it sounded romantic.

"Do you always follow your heart?" she asked playfully, still not willing to admit how much she had enjoyed tonight.

Stiles grinned. "You should try it sometime."

"Maybe I will," she said, and then she kissed him.

\

_4\. Don't let the bad ruin the good._

For a week after the dance, nothing happened.

Lydia went about her daily routine as normal. She aced every test, kept up conversations at lunch, did her charity work after school. But something felt missing, and it wasn't until he came back that she realized what it was.

It had been one of those days where every conceivable thing had gone wrong. She'd smeared her lipstick, spilled her soup, gotten a 98% on a test. She was sitting by herself at lunch, in no mood for smalltalk, and then suddenly there he was.

He handed her a flower he'd plucked from the garden on the way. She held it in her open palm, and for a split second she wanted to crush it. Instead she tucked it behind her ear, and then she looked up at him.

"You looked lonely," he said by way of explanation. He said it almost like an apology, like he didn't want to intrude.

She was struck by the sudden urge to hug him, but she resisted.

"Bad day?" he asked after a while.

"The worst," she responded grimly.

To her surprise he didn't ask what was wrong, didn't even try to comfort her. Instead he pointed at the nearby garden, which was in full bloom. "The flowers look lovely today," he commented.

Lydia's gaze drifted over, taking in the chaotic color and wild beauty, and for a second things didn't seem so bad.

\

_5\. Let yourself be vulnerable._

By the time the symptoms started, Lydia and Stiles had been dating for almost a year.

She had even finally invited him to sit with her at lunch, and when her friends had objected she'd marched away and sat down with Stiles at their own table. And maybe that was better anyway.

The signs crept up slowly. He grew more irritable, uncharacteristically sharp. He had trouble sleeping at night, and what little sleep he did manage to get was inevitably soured by nightmares. He pulled away, sometimes restless and other times listless, and Lydia herself felt hopeless.

She had finally found a safe place to land, and he was drifting away.

Lydia cornered him one day after school, demanding to know what was wrong. He kept trying to deny that anything was abnormal, but she knew better. Finally he caved, and he slumped against the wall, and she sat down beside him and held one of his hands in both of hers, and he made his confession.

"I think something's really wrong." Deep, shaky breath. "I think I need help."

\

_6\. Stand by your friends; they're your real family._

The tests took their toll. Lydia could see Stiles slipping away bit by bit, and there was nothing she could do to help.

Sometimes he was in hospital for almost a week at a time, and she would skip whatever periods she could just to visit him. She always came carrying movies and games and candy and stuffed toys, everything her own mother used to bring her when she was sick as a child.

He would always greet her with a smile, and she would pretend that she hadn't glanced in the window on her way in and seen him in tears. They didn't talk about the tests or the symptoms or the fact that there were still tears in his eyes. Instead she would sit by his side, passing the time with idle pursuits, hoping to ease the pain of uncertainty.

It was just after Stiles was released from hospital for the fourth time that Allison and Scott broke up. Scott came over to Stiles' house, frustrated and heartbroken, and Lydia watched Stiles comfort him. She'd done her part too, but Stiles played the role so perfectly; listening patiently, saying exactly the right words.

Scott stayed for almost an hour, until, finally in slightly better spirits, he departed. Only then did Stiles allow himself to crumble. Lydia watched as he completely fell apart, understanding perfectly that he had only kept himself together for his friend's benefit.

"What happened?" she asked at last, guiding him over to his bed and sitting down beside him.

He looked up at her, eyes still shining with tears, hands trembling, the picture of heartbreak. "I got a diagnosis today," he said, and he handed over a small sheet of paper.

Lydia scanned it, her hand flying to her mouth as she gauged its meaning. And then Stiles was holding her, comforting her even in his own despair.

Always thinking of others.

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_7\. Never give up hope._

She was with him when his demons finally won.

He had begged her to leave, told her he didn't want her to see him like this, but she'd resisted. She sat by his bed and held his hand and recited Greek myths and chemical formulas until he fell asleep. She'd be there still when he woke up, surviving solely on vending machine food and hospital coffee.

His days grew darker, but she turned him back toward the light.

"Tell me one thing that made you smile today."

"Seeing your face when I woke up."

"Tell me something you want to do when you get out of here."

"Climb Mount Everest."

"Tell me what you thought of me when you first saw me."

"I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world."

Despite the best efforts of friends and family and the whole medical team, Stiles was getting worse. Some days he couldn't remember his own name, and other times he would become frantic, confused as to where he was and how he got there. Lydia became used to gently lowering him back into the bed, uttering soothing words to remind him that she was here and he was safe.

After one such incident, he just stared at her blankly. "Who are you?"

"Lydia."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Then he lay back against the pillows, saying the name softly under his breath with half a smile. "Lydia…"

Shortly after that, he woke up for the last time. She talked with him about sports and the weather and what everyone from school was doing. He was lucid, he was aware, and he gave her that sun-bright smile he had the first time they'd met.

But things went south very quickly, and in under a minute the room was swarming with doctors and nurses. The beeping filled her ears, jolting her heart, making her want to scream.

Stiles held onto her hand, held her gaze. "It's going to be okay," he said, a promise, and then he was gone.

\

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Now, only days later, Lydia is sitting at his funeral. She listens to the minister talk about what a great person Stiles was, how he had so much potential, and finally she tunes him out and repeats the lessons in her mind.

_Don't be afraid to take a chance. Go with your gut. Follow your heart. Don't let the bad ruin the good. Let yourself be vulnerable. Stand by your friends; they're your real family. Never give up hope._

The seven things Stiles taught her. Lydia has always been a thinker, always the intellectual one, and she hadn't even realized how much she had still to learn. She had known about all subjects academic, but she had never known a thing about life or love, about heartbreak or hope or being _real_. Now she knows. She was supposed to be the smart one, but somehow he'd managed to teach her so much.

"Is there anybody who would like to say a few words?" the minister asks.

Lydia had refused to speak at his funeral. She had known she wouldn't be able to keep it together. But now, courage takes her over. "I would," she says, getting to her feet before she can change her mind.

She takes to the small raised dais, taps the microphone once, glances at her friends. "I wasn't going to speak today," she begins slowly, her gaze lowering to the floor. "But it's what Stiles would have wanted. Stiles was… he was the most selfless, generous person I have ever met. He touched me in ways I will never be able to explain; he gave me more than I ever could have dreamed possible."

She pauses, looking at the front row. Allison and Scott are both crying. She glances a row back, and sees that the Sheriff is also in tears.

"Stiles taught me so many things. He taught me to be brave, to be strong – and also to be weak. He taught me to let people in, and to let people go, and to never be afraid to be myself. Without him I would never have achieved half of what I have these past two years. He taught me that family is the most important thing in the world, and that kindness is always unapologetic. He taught me to see things in a new way, to appreciate everything I have, to see the beauty in everything. He taught me to be kind, to be gentle…"

The words catch in her throat, but she takes a deep breath and soldiers on.

"Stiles was the best son, friend, and boyfriend anyone could have asked for. He gave more than he took, loved more than he hated, and understood way more than he let on."

After pausing for laughs she carries on, imagining, just for a moment, that she can feel him here with her. A butterfly lands on her hand, alighting for a split second before it departs, and a sad smile traces itself across her face.

"Life is going to be difficult without Stiles. It's going to be painful, and horrible, and at times almost unbearable. But we can get through it, because we have each other – and we have Stiles to thank for that. He taught me more than I can ever say, and I owe him more than I will ever be able to repay. Even in his last few days, he didn't let the bad stuff win. He kept fighting, even when it was killing him. And I think he knew what he was doing; I think he knew what he was talking about. I always believed everything he said, because, let's face it, that boy couldn't have told a lie if his life depended on it."

More laughter, sadness mingling with mirth. Her eyes on the butterfly, which has alighted on the single flower dangling around the microphone, she finishes her speech.

"And I believe he knew what he was saying when he said his final words to me. I really, truly believe that it's going to be okay."

Closing her eyes for a second, she lets the words sink in. Then she leaves the dais, hurries back to her friends – her family – and collapses into their arms. Stiles is gone, but she will never forget him.

And wherever he is, she hopes he's proud of her.

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End file.
